


Cute

by sarabandefive



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: A silly ephemeral thing, Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 20:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16312460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarabandefive/pseuds/sarabandefive
Summary: John gets some unexpected help with something that's been bothering him.





	Cute

**Author's Note:**

> 'I think everyone wanted to look like Bjorn. Certainly he had the cool clothes, and the sweet headband, and the great locks... I used to always comb [my hair]... but mine started, like, frizzing too much - so while I was desperate to have the hair like Bjorn, it sort of went out like Bozo the Clown more...'  
> \--John McEnroe, 2011

John scowled. His reflection, under its mop of unruly curls, scowled back at him out of the cracked mirror. Gritting his teeth, he made another attempt to adjust the headband. One side slipped down over his ear. 

When he made it on the tour, he thought, when he was number one - which would hopefully be soon - he would definitely hire someone to do this for him. It was so dumb to have to waste time getting annoyed about this kind of thing right before a semifinal, especially when he'd already been off his game all tournament. John could almost hear Mary’s voice chiding him. ‘You really shouldn’t let yourself get riled up by these things, Junior.’

It was easy for her to say, he thought bitterly. She never seemed to get annoyed at anything, even infuriating things that would have thrown John right out of a match. She was like Bjorn that way: calm and collected at all times. He had no idea how either of them did it.

Bjorn. His opponent tomorrow, if he ever got that far. There was someone who always looked perfect on court, not a strand of his beautiful blond hair out of place. He would give anything to look as good as Bjorn did - slim and powerful with shining golden locks like some kind of Viking god. John couldn't even manage to get his headband on properly. A few years previously, back when he had just started on the main tour, he had tried his best to imitate Bjorn's look, but whenever he brushed out his hair and willed it to lie flat it always ended up back in a curly, messy mop, sticking out awkwardly from under his headband and making him look less like a handsome Viking and more like a circus clown. Which would be fitting right now, actually, considering how comically badly he had been playing all week.

Groaning in frustration, he pulled off the headband and was about to try the process again when an amused voice spoke.

‘Having trouble?’

Eyes wide, John spun round to see Bjorn leaning against the bank of lockers. 

Through the alarm bells that were suddenly going off in his head, John heard him speaking. 'I noticed you've been there at the mirror for a while,' he said. 'Don't you have a match soon?'

John sighed. ‘It's this headband. Or maybe it's my hair. Either way the look isn't really working out for me.’ He twisted the headband in his hands, feeling foolish. Bjorn looked as incredible as always, dressed for practice in shorts that made him look especially long and lean and a shirt that showed off the breadth of his shoulders, with his hair falling in soft cascades around his face. For some reason he seemed to find whatever stupid thing John had just said tremendously funny, and broke unexpectedly into a laugh - his peculiarly high-pitched, inelegant laugh which scrunched his features up and made John's stomach twist in a way he wasn't quite comfortable with.

'It should be easy,' John continued, trying to ignore the feeling. 'I dunno. I mean, you always seem to have it perfect.'

‘There is a method to it,’ Bjorn agreed, still grinning. 'But you have to be patient. And sometimes it is not easy to do alone. Here. Let me help.’ And before John had time to react, Bjorn had crossed to stand between him and the mirror, pulled the headband from his hands and was pushing it down over his head.

John stood frozen as Bjorn adjusted the headband, slipping his fingers under the fabric to straighten it and brushing curls back behind John's ears. His fingertips ghosted across John’s skin and John felt his breath catch. Was this gamesmanship? Was this a tactic to distract him from his upcoming match? If so, it was working, John thought hazily. Bjorn’s hair looked even better up close, golden and silky. He was obviously concentrating, his forehead creased in a small frown above his bright blue eyes and his lips very slightly parted. John wondered what his hair would feel like to touch, then whether his lips were as soft as they looked; then, desperately, he tried to think about something - anything - else. The match. He furiously imagined a complex net approach and did his best to stare into the middle distance, hoping to God that Bjorn couldn't tell how much his heart was hammering.

After what felt like hours, Bjorn’s hands stilled, resting against John’s temples as he appraised his work.

‘There,’ Bjorn said, and John could swear he felt the breath against his face. 'Perfect.'

With rising panic, John realised that Bjorn wasn't taking his hands away. Very slowly and very, very gently, the Swede was stroking his fingers through the curls by his ears. One of them he wrapped around his index finger before letting it go and watching it spring softly back into shape.

‘Looks cute,’ Bjorn said, quietly.

‘Bjorn-'

A door slammed in the distance, and John blinked. The moment was broken. Bjorn let his hands drop and took a step back, though his eyes didn't leave John's face.

'All fixed,' he said, smiling. John swallowed. His throat had gone very dry.

'Thank you, um, I mean, it looks great,' he stammered, without glancing in the mirror. 'I uh. I better get ready. For my match.'

'Of course,' Bjorn said, sounding amused. He still hadn't looked away. John could feel his eyes on him as he scrambled around the locker room in a daze, collecting his things from where he had haphazardly dropped them. What exactly had been about to happen just then? Bjorn was a rival of his - a friend, too, sure, but - and a guy - had he really been about to -

Did he really think he looked _cute_ _?_

His thoughts whirling, John grabbed his last missing t-shirt from the locker-room floor and made for the door. As he passed where Bjorn was standing, he hesitated. Somewhere in the turbulence of his mind he was aware that he shouldn't stop, that he should just keep walking, but for some reason his feet didn't seem to want to leave the room.

While he wavered, Bjorn spoke again.

'Good luck for the match,' he said. 'I hope you win.'

John grimaced. 'Haha, you mean lose, right?'

To his surprise, Bjorn shook his head. 'No, really. I want you to win. I want to play you tomorrow.'

'Oh,' said John. He could feel himself start to blush. Distantly, he wondered why he still hadn't left. He should have made his escape quickly and put this whole thing behind him. Instead he was getting drawn in again. He wondered how often Bjorn acted like this with other players, then wished he hadn't as a sharp pang of jealousy curled through him.

'I like playing against you,' Bjorn continued, quietly. He reached out and gently brushed a last wayward curl behind one of John's ears. 'Even if your hair, it is a bit messy.' 

John opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. blushing furiously. Bjorn chuckled.

'Go, don't miss your match. Try going to the net more for this one. You've been very far back this tournament, a lot of time at the baseline, when I was watching. This is why you almost lose these other matches. Go forward, volley more, he won't like it.'

'Yeah?' John grinned, suddenly feeling very light. Bjorn had been watching his matches. Bjorn thought he was cute.  


Bjorn shrugged loosely. 'I mean, that is if you want to win.' 

John snorted. 'Well, then I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow.'  


'Tomorrow,' Bjorn agreed, as John raced out of the locker room and hurtled down the corridor, taking the stairs three at a time and arriving on court in a giddy whirl. He had an appointment to keep, after all. There was no time to lose.  


The poor bastard on the other side of the net never stood a chance.

**Author's Note:**

> John's obsession with Bjorn's hair is enduring, and is well-attested in both of his autobiographies.
> 
> The quote at the start of this fic is taken from the HBO documentary Fire & Ice, which I can heartily recommend to any tennis fan.


End file.
